


The Point of Vulnerability

by chromeknickers



Category: That '70s Show
Genre: F/M, Romance, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 00:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11368761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromeknickers/pseuds/chromeknickers
Summary: They could have been like two ships passing in the night, meeting for one brief and intense moment before parting in silence. Instead, they were two intersecting streets meeting at the point of vulnerability: destined to love, to lie and to hurt one another—and, if they were very lucky, do it all over again.





	The Point of Vulnerability

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the 2017 Zenmasters Anthology on tumblr. My prompt was First Kiss.
> 
> Artwork by [hydelovesloudgirl](http://hydelovesloudgirl.tumblr.com).

nulla. dreams

 

He dreams of her. On the rare nights he can catch any sleep, he dreams of her face. Of her eyes. Of her voice. Of her lips. Of all the ways things could have gone differently—

If he hadn’t met Sam.

If he hadn’t gone to Chicago.

If he hadn’t tried to win her back.

If he hadn’t slept with that nurse.

If he hadn’t watched _The Price is Right_ with her.

If he hadn’t kissed her on the hood of her daddy’s Lincoln...

Yeah, it was that damn kiss that started everything.

Their relationship plays out in his head; some memories good, others bad. Sometimes he imagines catching her before she left for Chicago, telling her yes; sometimes he imagines leaving Point Place and never coming back.

He imagines what it could have been like if he never met Sam. Would he and Jackie have got back together? Would rebuilding their relationship been an option? Would it have become something different, something better? Would they have come out stronger or would they have only deteriorated in the end? Maybe weird and unnatural is never supposed to make it.

He knows now that he could’ve forgiven her, _should’ve_ forgiven her, like she forgave him so many times. The nurse, Raquel (fuck!), even Sam. He and Jackie could’ve started over. He can imagine that. He can imagine summer evenings, sitting side by side, two bottles of beer sweating under the setting sun, lights strung up around their newly built porch of their little home. She’d pull slivers from his fingers and tell him he needs to wear those gloves she got him; teasing him when he winces, kissing each cut better as she stares up at him, those bright brown eyes never failing to make a warm weight settle deep in his chest.

Moments like that freeze up in his head, slow motion, with her looking so damn beautiful and hopeful and his...

 _Jackie_.

He can still hear her laugh. It echoes in his ears until his eyes snap open, his hand reaching for a body that’s no longer there—that hasn’t been there for a long time. She’s gone, out of his life, and his love has gone with her. That comfort and familiarity and trust he once possessed have evaporated. He feels it stirring up in his gut, mixing in with the rage and the violence and the ‘Fuck you, God, or whoever the fuck is pulling these goddamn strings!’ Fuck all of them. Fuck everybody who said they knew this would happen, that he and Jackie would never make it. Fuck every bad decision he’s ever made. Fuck it all. He’s tired. He’s so fucking tired.

But when he closes his eyes, he sees her, and he’s not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse. Because when he reaches for her, she isn’t close enough, and when he chases her, she sifts through his fingers like fine threads, a ghost of a hope of a dream. Waking up hurts—physically, mentally, emotionally. He’s just done. He’s broken and empty and tired.

This cage he’s built for himself is too small. It’s too strong and the walls are always closing in. And every time he thinks he’s found a way out, a way around, a way through, there’s a new problem, a new roadblock, another excuse.

What is his life going to be like now? Is this it? Is this all he has to look forward to? Alcohol and cheap women? He’s no different than Bud. He wanted so many things. He can remember imagining a future with her in it, building it up in his head, and it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t... _this_.

He can still smell her hair, feel it coil around his fingers. He can still feel the weight of her hand on his chest, stroking in circles, pausing on scars, silently asking for stories he hasn’t told her. Not yet.

He can still see her, staring up at him, her face sad and angry and scared—

_Steven! What, uh, what are you doing here?_

Was any of it real? Had he really just walked away?

He loved her. Fuck it all, he loves her still. It’s hard putting a word to it, putting a definition on something he never thought he’d have. Jackie is always going to be in his heart—she defines it. The little brat came out of nowhere and snuck in. She got under his defences and carved out her own place in his heart. He can see it now as he saw it back then.

She became a new dream. A new hope. A new chance. He finally saw himself going somewhere, having something, being more than just the product of his parents. More than a burnout loser. Sure, his history wasn’t great and his past wasn’t clean, but he had his friends. He had the Formans. He had Jackie. He could do this. Just him and Jackie against the world. And now...

Now he wakes up every morning and it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Eventually, he’s sure that the feeling will fade, like all things do. But he doesn’t want them to. So he keeps his eyes closed for a little while longer. Even after he’s startled awake, he tries to hold onto those lingering pieces of a dream never lived and already lost. Sometimes he tells himself that she’s there, right beside him. Sometimes he can even feel her...

Until the phone rings, sharp and shrill, calling him in for work, and his eyes have to open to the empty space beside him. The hole that she used to fill, gone. Once again, he’s alone, and there’s no one to blame but himself.

 


End file.
